


The Perils of Cashmere and Silk

by genteelrebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, First Time, Humor, Light Bondage, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beware of ex-sisters-in-law bearing gifts.  When Clara, under the impression that Sherlock and John are lovers, picks out an expensive present for John to give to Sherlock during their first Christmas together, John is forced to face the real reason why he and the detective Are Not A Couple.  And then to decide what he wants to do about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perils of Cashmere and Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liz_mo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_mo/gifts).



> So…thanks to Mary and Irene, this is probably an AU now. (LOL, it wasn’t when I started it, way back during Season One!) I’m setting it during the boys' first Christmas, which in my muse’s opinion happened sometime between The Blind Baker and The Great Game. Therefore, it doesn’t involve Irene. Or Moriarty. Or airplanes full of dead people. I leave it up to you which version you think the boys would prefer. :)
> 
> Also, please note that this is my first-ever Sherlock fic. It’s also, apart from some very misguided Red Dwarf fic written when I was a teen, my first-ever fic written for a British fandom. I am American. Therefore, even though I tried my best, I’m sure there are lots of unconscious American-isms in here. Or worse, lots of badly mangled attempts at sounding authentically British. I beg forgiveness in advance.
> 
> This story is dedicated to the ALWAYS amazing and inspiring Liz-Mo. Happy Early Birthday 2015!!! Or Happy Very Belated Birthday 2012-14, take your pick!!!!

Why do people close their eyes when they kiss?

It was an incredibly silly thing to wonder, what with Sherlock standing closer than he’d ever been, so close that John could feel the warmth of his breath and count every eyelash cloaking those extraordinary gray eyes. Nevertheless, the question ran like an Olympic sprinter through John’s mind, breaking up every other train of thought the same way a running man might break through the ribbon at a finish line. Just why *did* people always close their eyes before they touched their lips? What could possibly be the point?

For years now, John had believed it was a simple physical reflex. The body closed its eyes out of an instinctive need to protect the vulnerable corneas whenever a foreign object came too close. 

But he could remember a much younger John, fifteen years old and still thrilling to all the wonder of his first schoolboy love, believing there was a much more romantic cause. Two people whose hearts and minds were about to become one naturally closed their eyes, so they could more easily slip into the feeling of said oneness. And he could even remember voicing this opinion to his sister Harry, who, despite being nearly a full year younger than John, had already far outstripped him in cynicism. “Don’t be stupid, John,” she’d said tartly. “You have to close your eyes so you’re not put off. No one would ever kiss anybody if they went around looking at each other that closely. Nose hair, pimples, greasy skin…”

The fifteen-year-old John had been quite stung by this, although he’d tried to laugh it off as a joke. “Maybe that’s because you’ve been kissing boys,” he remembered saying lightly. “Girls actually get prettier up close. Chelsea—“ Chelsea was the name of the young lady he was in love with—“Chelsea especially.”

Harry had given him a look of utter disdain. In retrospect, that look made a lot more sense. Because of course Harry had been kissing girls too, and was pissed off as hell that nobody (besides the girls in question) had, as yet, cared enough to notice. But John wouldn’t know that for another five years. “Trust me, John,” she’d said bitterly. “Nothing in life looks as good when you’re right up close to it than it does from a distance. Nothing at all.” 

And John, who had gone on to kiss many more girls and women and even, god help him, one or two extraordinary men, had reluctantly come to agree with her. Nothing in life that you’ve looked at and longed for from a distance was ever as beautiful up close. Especially nothing as complicated…and messy…and *real*…as a human face.

Sherlock, naturally, was proving to be the world’s one great exception.

Dear god. The man was flawless. This wasn’t really a surprise--once, during The Case of the Missing Mascara, he’d watched Sherlock stride through a room packed full of professional models of both genders, and had heard every single one heave a sigh of desolate envy as the detective passed by. Still, John was a little startled to discover that even at this distance—which was, admittedly, not *quite* kissing distance, since they’d have to move maybe a full four or five inches closer for their lips to touch even if John tilted his head back to the necessary angle, something John was far too frozen and terrified to do—even at this distance, it was hard to come up with a word to describe Sherlock’s facial features other than “perfect”. Perfect pale skin, as flawless as a drift of fresh snow. Perfect arched brows, each hair placed with the sensual precision of a Renaissance sculpture. Perfect sloping nose, leading inexorably down from the cheekbones that had been the chief cause of those envious sighs…John’s panicked gaze roamed over them all, and finally ended up on Sherlock’s lips. He stared at their lush softness for one perfect, terrifying second. And then did something that was, in retrospect, almost as stupid as it was necessarily self-defensive. He closed his eyes.

And *that* was a problem. Because in the absence of vision, all of John’s other senses became so much stronger. Scent especially. He was suddenly painfully aware of the distinctive clove and mint fragrance scenting Sherlock’s hair—the scent left by Mycroft’s expensive, glass bottled, made-since-1820-at-the-behest-of-the-crown, “at least you can SMELL like a gentleman, brother mine” birthday gift shampoo, a gift Sherlock had made intense fun of and yet never seemed to be without. John could clearly distinguish this from the stronger clove fragrance, this time heavily mixed with rum, of Mrs. Hudson’s eggnog spicing Sherlock’s breath. And beneath all that, most painful of all, John could make out the perfect—yes, there was that word again—perfect warm fragrance of Sherlock’s skin alone, which John now realized he had no words to describe but nevertheless would know anywhere. 

Okay. Clearly, closing his eyes hadn’t gotten John anywhere. Maybe if he stopped breathing, too…

But that too was mistake, since holding his breath apparently gave his treacherous body permission to focus on every sweet, suddenly exquisitely sensitive inch of him that Sherlock also touched. There was a drifting curl of Sherlock’s hair, shockingly baby-soft, lightly brushing the side of John’s forehead. There was that warm, egg-nog scented breath on his face. And there was a lithe arm lying on the mantle behind him, a masculine chest pressed against his side. 

At least John couldn’t feel his hips. Sherlock was still keeping *those*, thank god, at that same discrete, not-quite-kissing distance, even as he unabashedly leaned the rest of his body right into John’s personal space. And John was grateful for that, since it meant that John could keep his stubborn, foolish, completely unreasonable erection a secret for at least a few moments more. Or maybe he was simply grateful that he had a few more moments before he had to face the stubborn, foolish, and completely unreasonable heartbreak he knew he would feel when he was forced to discover that he was the only one in such a state…

Then Sherlock touched him. Not with his hips. Just with his fingers, gently laying them on the side of John’s face. But it was enough to make John’s eyes fly open. Sherlock’s face was still inches, miles, fathoms away. But he was, perhaps, a few millimeters closer than he’d been before. It was close enough that John could make out all the different flecks of green and gold that flirted amongst the steady blue-grey of Sherlock’s eyes, close enough to make him wonder why he’d never seen them before. And, looking into those eyes, knowing that they were looking back just intently into his, John was forced to revise all his previous theories about why people closed their eyes before they kissed. His older, more medical self, had been much closer to the truth than his young romantic one. It *was* all about self-defense. But not about something as crassly physical as defending the eyeballs from damage. It…it was…

It was that this close, it was impossible to keep any secrets. 

And suddenly John knew two things. First, Sherlock already knew *exactly* what state John was in. (Of course he did; who did John think he was dealing with? The bastard had probably calculated the exact temperature and angle of his erection a dozen times by now.) And second, John was not anywhere near as alone in this as he had feared. The great detective was in a very similar state himself.

John gasped. 

“Good,” Sherlock murmured, somehow managing to sound affectionate, exasperated, and smug all at the same time. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten how to breathe on your own.” His fingers moved downward, ghosting over John’s cheek and jaw until they came to rest on the scarf John wore tightly knotted around his neck. The green scarf. The deep green cashmere-and-silk scarf John had been wearing so unsuccessfully, the proper tying of which was the whole reason why Sherlock had come this close to him in the first place. “Tell me,” Sherlock said, and there was something new in his voice this time, a breathy rumble that made John gasp again and caused his already impossibly hard erection to jerk upward, suddenly just that much impossibly harder. “Are you finally ready to give me what’s mine?”

John thought about his answer… 

***

That scarf had already led quite an eventful life. 

Perhaps this was inevitable, given who was responsible for it coming into John’s life in the first place. Clara, Harry’s long estranged and even longer ill-treated wife, had given it to John almost six weeks previously, when they’d met in a café just before Clara left England. After three years of we’re-back-together-no-we’re-not madness—madness which John’s heart had decided was almost 100% Harry’s fault, even though his mind logically knew that no breakup could last that long without both partners being at least partially responsible—Clara was finally going home. Home, to the United States and the rich Bostonian parents John knew genuinely loved their daughter, even if they’d never quite been able to wrap their minds around some of her life choices. 

Most of Clara’s belongings had already been shipped to the States. The two suitcases she was taking on the plane were neatly packed and sitting beside the café table, handles placed where they could be easily grabbed. Her double-breasted wool coat was neatly and irreproachably buttoned to the neck; her baby pink hand knit hat—new—was perched squarely on her head. In other words, she was a woman ready to travel. A woman who had made peace with her past and was ready to go forward, with no loose ends dangling.

Except, of course, for John. Some people would wonder, in light of the suitcase handles and the hat—that is, if they even noticed such things at all; John certainly wouldn’t have before he met Sherlock—some people might wonder why Clara had wanted to meet with him at all. Why was John Watson, the brother of her abusive ex-wife, the last person Clara wanted to see before her flight? Certainly Mrs. Watson had wondered, in that annoying, ‘pay-no-attention-dear, just-talking-to-myself,’ way she had when she’d hoovered the hall that morning. 

But John hadn’t needed to guess. Clara might never have any medals pinned on her chest, but she, too, was a veteran of a violent foreign war—World War Harry. And while John hadn’t always been on the front lines, he was the closest thing Clara had to a comrade, the one person on earth who really had a good idea what her last fifteen years had been like. Saying goodbye to him was the last thing she needed to do before she could make her break clean. John understood.

And so he’d agreed to meet her. He’d been happy to. But he would have freely admitted that he hadn’t expected *Clara* to seem so happy, or to be so easy to talk to. Clearly, Clara’s clean break had already been made. Instead of being morose or angry, she was bright and excited about her future. It was almost like having tea with the Clara of yesterday, the one John had met when he’d been a ridiculously young medical student and she’d been the brilliant Rhodes Scholar Harry had so defiantly brought home. John hadn’t expected the time to fly by as quickly as it had. And he certainly hadn’t expected, when twenty minutes of their allotted half hour had ticked by, for Clara to pull a long flat box tied with a bright red ribbon out of her large purse. “This is for you,” she said, shoving it at John across the plastic café table. 

John simply stared at it dumbly. Clara rolled her eyes. “All right, all right. I know you are a man, and therefore obligated by law not to think about Christmas until the weekend before it, at the absolute earliest. But even you must have noticed the holiday music that’s started playing in all the shops. And since I’m not going to be here for Christmas itself, I thought…” She rolled her eyes again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Stop looking so stunned and open it. It isn’t going to bite, I promise you. Why, you’ve probably already figured out what’s inside.”

Sherlock would have, John knew. Not only would he have noted the exact weight and dimensions of the box, he would also have noticed the discrete logo of one of London’s most exclusive department stores printed on the lid, and run a mental cross check on everything Clara was wearing to determine her income and spending habits and thereby deduce what she was likely to buy as a gift. John, being merely mortal, was forced to give the box an experimental rattle—there was no sound at all—and guess. “You got me a tie?”

She snorted. “As if,” she said. “We both know you hate the things, and plan to spend the rest of your life avoiding all jobs and social interactions that would require one. What, you think I don’t remember how hard it was to get you into that bow tie at my wedding? But I’ll admit you’re not far off. It’s the same general sort of idea.” She made little waving motions at the box. “Go on. Open it.”

John did. He slipped off the ribbon and lifted the box lid, revealing a pool of deep green fabric darkness. The color was something like a cross between the dark night fog of London and the multi-layered green of a spruce grove in winter, and for some reason it instantly made John think of Sherlock. He didn’t know why, exactly. Except that sometimes Sherlock’s eyes reflected that color when he was in one of his darker moods—and that was such an odd thought to have that John hastened to up-end the box, spilling the contents onto the tabletop. Length after length of luxurious woven fabric poured out, looking oddly out of place in the cheerful, brightly lit Formica world that was the café. When he touched it, it felt obscenely smooth and pliable beneath his fingers. “A scarf?”

Clara beamed. “Very good, John. Got it in one guess. Do you like it?”

“It’s, um, it’s very…” Unexpected, was what John wanted to say. And then he wondered what sort of Christmas gift he would have expected from Clara, if he’d ever thought to expect one at all. Her gifts to him during her and Harry’s couple-hood had all been small things, welcome but extremely practical: ten pounds to spend at the University book store during their student years, a set of coffee mugs for his first bachelor flat, a few pairs of heavy woolen winter socks when all other creativity had failed. A scarf shouldn’t have seemed like such a large deviation from that pattern, but for some reason, this one was. Maybe it was because if John had expected Clara to give him a scarf at all, he’d have expected her to knit him one herself out of some scratchy practical wool. He certainly would never have expected her to spend the 300-pounds-plus *this* little foray into men’s haberdashery must have cost. “It’s, uh, very soft.”

Clara nodded, still looking pleased. “Cashmere and silk,” she said. “They had some lovely ones that were all cashmere, but I wanted something that would hold up a little better, so I asked the man at the Liberty accessories department and he came up with this. The cashmere is for softness and warmth. The silk is for strength.” Clara’s eyes twinkled. “I thought that strength would come in handy in case you ever, oh, I don’t know. Have to use it to dangle off a building, or tie up a criminal, or something.” 

And now there were alarm bells going off in John’s head, painful ones. “You’ve been reading my blog.”

“*And* the news stories,” she agreed. “At least, the two there’s been so far. Yes.”

“Oh, god.” 

It was more groan than actual speech. John slumped in his chair as Clara’s bright laughter rang out around him, loud enough to attract the attention of the other café patrons. He shushed her hurriedly. She reduced her volume obligingly, though her eyes still sparkled. “All right,” John said resignedly. “So you know about Sherlock, and the building-dangling and the criminal-chasing. Who else knows?”

“In the family, you mean?” Clara blinked, surprised. “Um…hmmm. I really couldn’t say. I haven’t talked to any of them for months. And that was just your Aunt Mabel, wanting to know when I’d finally get around to sending her wedding present back. As far as your mum and Harry go…well. They’d have to actually notice something beyond the bottom of their own noses to have a clue. And you know how likely *that* is.” For the first time, a trace of bitterness crept into Clara’s voice. John could only nod heavily in agreement. Sadly, her summing up was an accurate one. But Clara’s bitterness left as quickly as it came, replaced by a clear curiosity. “No, I’d say your secret is as safe as you want it to be. If it is a secret. Is it, John?”

John shook his head, suddenly feeling tired. “No, not a secret,” he said wearily. “But I haven’t been looking forward to them finding out, just the same. I…” He realized that his fingers, quite without his conscious direction, had started petting the soft fabric of the scarf, probably in a vain attempt to get some comfort to aid with this difficult conversation. He frowned, something that had bothered him from the moment he opened the box suddenly falling into place. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you always used to say that green was not my color?”

Clara nodded. “It isn’t.”

“Then why are you giving me a green scarf for Christmas?”

“Because it’s not for you, silly. It’s for Sherlock.”

“Uh-huh.” A horrid suspicion began to rise in him. “And you are giving me a green scarf for Sherlock because…?”

Clara sipped her tea introspectively. “There are a lot of reasons, I guess,” she said. “Maybe I just didn’t want to leave England forever without being on good terms with at least one Watson. Or maybe it’s because, even though I’ll never again be your sister-in-law, I hate the thought of no longer being your *sister* so much that I simply had to do something sisterly for you before I left. But mostly—“ And here she recaptured her twinkle, becoming once again the sparkling young woman John so clearly remembered from before their respective wars—“Mostly, it’s because I *know* you, John. You are utter bollocks when it comes to gift shopping. So, I wanted to get you something nice to give to Sherlock, something you wouldn’t have thought of to get him on your own. Let’s face it--if you remembered to buy him a gift at all, it would be a first aid kit or tire pressure gauge or some other such rubbishy thing. And your first Christmas together as a couple is important. Trust me, I know.” 

And there it was. The assumption he’d known was coming, the assumption that so many other people had already made. The inevitable start of a conversation John had had many, many times by now—so many, in fact, that he sometimes thought he should have “Sherlock Holmes is not my boyfriend” printed on his CV right after the “John H. Watson, M.D.” Or else made into a sandwich board that he could wear. Or maybe he should simply start shouting it at random people in the street, as loudly and angrily as possible, and walk away before they could recover. John was beginning to think that rudeness was his friend.

But he couldn’t be rude to Clara. Not after all they’d been through together, as co-victims and survivors of Hurricane Harry. And he especially couldn’t do it now, during what could be the last time he ever saw her—not when the last gesture she was making was one of such incredible sweetness, bravely and open-heartedly wishing him well on his relationship just as she was fleeing the last hideous memories of her own. No, rudeness was unthinkable. 

But—and here was the real hell of it--so was lying. “Sherlock Holmes is not my boyfriend, Clara.”

She blinked. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid. We’re not a couple, Clara. I don’t think we ever will be.”

There was silence from the other side of the table. Startled silence at first, or so John thought; he didn’t quite want to meet Clara’s eyes to find out. But then the startled silence somehow slowly shifted into thoughtful silence, and after a few moments more of that, Clara finally spoke. “John…this is me you’re talking to.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Then you must know that there’s no need for you to….I mean, you *have* to know that I would never…”

“No, uh-uh. Don’t say it.” John shook his head vehemently, suppressed anger making his words sharp and quick. “I *know* that this is you. I *know* you are the last person on earth I’d ever need to be in the closet around. And I know you know me better than practically anyone else on earth. You even know I’ve…” God. How to describe his brief, so brief it almost seemed like a fantasy, time with Peter at St. Barts, or with Alex in Afghanistan? There were no words for either, at least not any good ones. John dropped his voice. “…enjoyed…male company before. This isn’t about my lying to you. Or my trying to convince the world that I’m straight. Even though I am, mostly. I really, really am…”

“I know.”

Clara’s voice was warm, understanding. Encouraging. John nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “So this isn’t about that. And, with you, it would be pretty pointless to pretend that, where Sherlock is concerned, I never thought…never wondered…” Drat, he was having that ‘finding the right word’ problem again. He solved it by giving a bitter little laugh. “But this is Sherlock Holmes we’re talking about. And Sherlock doesn’t do relationships. Of any kind, really. Not even experimental ones. Trust me on this. It just isn’t in him.”

Clara was silent for a long time. Silent-thoughtful, John was pleased to realize, not silent-shocked or silent-mad. After a while, she said, “You live together. And have adventures together. Very interesting ones, if you haven’t been exaggerating your blog.”

“I haven’t.” John shook his head helplessly. “I know what it looks like, Clara. Maybe I can’t blame people for assuming that it IS what it looks like. But it’s not. It really isn’t.”

“Hmmm. “ Clara looked pensive. “John. Do you remember the day we first met? Way back when Harry and I had just started dating, and she brought me to your parent’s house for Christmas?”

He shuddered. “Do you think I could ever forget?”

“No.” A bit to John’s surprise, Clara laughed merrily. “Oh my goodness, what a drama! An entire house full of relatives and I think a good half a them walked out, absolutely incensed that Harry would dare to bring a woman as her date. And there was me, just as startled. I honestly thought Harry had told you all about me, warned you ahead of time. But she hadn’t.” Abruptly, Clara’s laughter evaporated. “It wouldn’t have been her style. Not Harry’s. She could never be content with a raindrop when there was a thunderstorm to be had.”

John nodded, remembering. No way around it, that holiday *had* been a total disaster. But still, in a strange way, it had been one of his happier Christmases. After the shouting had died down, he’d taken the fuming Harry and the shell-shocked Clara out for Chinese and a late movie, and then the three of them had stayed up for hours talking at Clara’s flat. Quite probably Harry had been more than a little bit stoned, but at least she hadn’t been drinking, and they’d all had a good time. “I remember.”

“Well, I should hope so. It’s not the sort of occasion one can easily forget,” Clara said dryly. “What you may *not* remember is what happened at every family gathering I went to after that. For years, it seemed that all your relatives thought everything would be fine if I’d just come to my senses and be *your* girlfriend, instead of Harry’s. Seeing as how we had so much in common and got along so well, you see. Some of them were even crass enough to tell me so to my face. Your mother, for example.”

John winced. Yes, his mother could easily have been that unconsciously cruel. “I’m sorry, Clara.”

She waved it away. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. As a matter of fact, you were our prince in shining armor, never failing to stand up for me and Harry no matter what. To tell the truth, you were *so* nice—so good and kind and true—that…” Clara took a deep breath. “That sometimes, I used to wonder the same thing your relatives were wondering. And sometimes I even dared to wish that you would wonder it, too.”

She met his gaze frankly. John swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Clara, are you trying to tell me that you…”

She blanched. “Oh, good god, no!” she exclaimed. “No, I didn’t ask you here to confess some sort of life-long secret love. I’m not making a pass at you, John. Trust me, you’ve been in my ‘big brother’ box for far too many years now for *that* to work. It would be…ug. Weird beyond imaging.” She did a deft imitation of a dog trying to shake some unpleasant cold liquid off her fur, and John had to smile, both amused and relieved. “No. But my point is this.” She looked at him earnestly. “There was a time, believe it or not, when you weren’t in my big brother box at all…when you were firmly in my ‘maybe’ box instead. But you couldn’t see that. Because you already had me in a bunch of boxes of your own…the ones marked ‘Harry’s Girlfriend’ and ‘100% lesbian’ and ‘Do Not Touch Under Any Circumstances Whatsoever.’ And that’s probably for the best. I’m pretty sure that I would have made just as many mistakes with a male Watson as I did with the female one.” Clara shrugged. “But we’ll never know for sure. And that’s because of *your* boxes, John. Not mine.”

At some point during the last minute, John’s mouth had dropped open. He closed it now, with some effort. “You think I’m putting Sherlock in a box.”

“I think it’s possible,” Clara agreed. “You have been rather quick to stick those ‘hands off, do not touch’ labels on people, historically. Or maybe Sherlock even stuck one on himself, back when you first met…”

John smiled faintly. “He did make a point of telling me that he was married to his work.”

“Well, there you go.” Clara nodded with the self-satisfaction of someone whose favorite personal theory has just been confirmed. “I could say that even if that were true, it now looks like the three of you are having one hell of a threesome…but there, that’s far too risqué an observation for John Watson’s ‘little sister’ to make. I can see you starting to blush up all ready. So all I’ll say, John, is try not to be so attached to your labels. Sometimes they’re wrong. Or people change the writing on them themselves over time. Or…oh, hell. I’m pretty sure that’s for me.” 

A taxi was pulling up to the curb outside the café. Clara looked at it, then her cell phone, and shook her head wryly. “Right on time, wouldn’t you know it,” she said. “And just when the conversation was getting so interesting. Shit, John. I really have to go.” She stood up, the well-positioned luggage handles instantly in her hands. “You know you can call me anytime, no matter what time zone I’m in. Don’t you?”

He stood up too, tucking his hands shyly into his jacket pockets. “I know that, Clara.”

“And I also know that you won’t,” she said sagely. “Not unless it’s a matter of life and death. And probably not even then.” She cocked her pretty head at him wryly. “Can’t say as I really blame you. I’m the last person I would go to for relationship advice either, given my track record. But take one last little bit anyway.” She nodded at the scarf, still lying pooled on the table. “Give him the scarf, John. Put the ribbon back on the box and tell him you bought it and see what happens. Or if you absolutely hate it, take it back to the store and get him something else—I tucked the receipt in under the tissue. But get him *something*. Okay?”

John half nodded, half shrugged, neither agreeing nor denying. Clara shook her head and gave him an exasperated kiss on the cheek. And then she was dashing out of the café and into the cab, on her way to her new life. 

John picked up the scarf. He watched the cab driving off into the distance. Then, very thoughtfully, he removed the receipt from the box and folded the soft cloth back into it, putting the lid back on and carefully sliding the ribbon back into place. 

***

The entire city of London seemed to have picked that day to explode into good holiday cheer. As John walked home, he couldn’t help but notice that garlands of greenery were suddenly draped from every lamppost, and that mounds of plastic snow gleamed in every shop display. 

Even Mrs. Hudson seemed to be in on the conspiracy. John could have sworn that when he’d left that morning, Baker Street had been completely tinsel- and holly- free. But when he returned from saying goodbye to Clara, Mrs. Hudson was standing on the stoop, straightening a pine bough wreath on the door with every appearance of satisfaction. “Oh!” she exclaimed gleefully when he came into view. “Been doing a little early Christmas shopping, have we?”

John gave her the same kind of non-committal shrug-nod he’d given Clara. Mrs. Hudson took it as a yes. She held out her hands expectantly. “Give us a look, then,” she said. 

John would never be quite sure how it happened. Maybe it was that ingrained “obey your mother” instinct Mrs. Hudson knew how to invoke so well. Whatever the cause, John found himself handing the package over, and Mrs. Hudson inspected it thoroughly. Her eyes widened when she saw the store logo. “Oooo! Liberty! Very posh,” she said. “But a scarf, dear? Don’t you think you should get Sherlock something a little more…intimate….for your first Christmas together?” 

Good god. Could everyone in England recognize the size and shape of a Liberty of London scarf box, except for John Watson? Maybe it was a female thing. “Good night, Mrs. Hudson,” he said firmly, re-appropriating his box and heading up the inside stairs. 

The secret conspiracy of Christmas decorators had yet to strike inside 221B itself—although John was willing to bet that there would be tinsel lining the mantelpiece by tomorrow noon at the latest, if Mrs. Hudson had her way. But for now, the room was shrouded in its typical non-holiday evening gloom, the thermostat turned low and only one tiny light left on within the kitchen. Sherlock was probably out god-knew-where working on one of his many cases—and even though part of John was upset that Sherlock hadn’t waited for him, most of him was actually relieved. Clara’s Christmas gift and chatter about “boxes” had given him much to think about. And it wasn’t the sort of thinking that could be easily done in company, although—John smiled—there was something about chasing miscreants at Sherlock’s side that never failed to make his thought processes crystal clear. Oh, doubtless it was all an illusion caused by the adrenaline high. But still, at those moments there were no distractions, no worry, no angst. The rest of the world just disappeared and John could see everything with a new clarity, since he knew without question that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. John took off his coat and tucked the scarf box under his arm, fingering the thick cardboard thoughtfully as he headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Maybe, just maybe, Clara—and everyone else in London-- actually knew what they were talking about when they insisted that he and Sherlock should become a couple. Maybe…

A deep male voice sounded in the darkness behind him. “How terribly and utterly predictable, John.”

A surge of adrenaline went through John’s body. Sadly, it wasn’t the good, clarity-inducing kind he’d just been romanticizing. Rather, it was just enough to make him want to jump and curse, and stretch his already tightly-stretched nerves that much tighter. John stalked back into the sitting room light and flicked on the light…thus revealing Sherlock, sprawled out over the couch in his favorite “Genius at Work: Do Not Disturb” pose. His impossibly long legs were flung every which way and he had one arm draped dramatically over his eyes. “All right,” John said evenly, trying not to give into the flare of temper that flickered through him. “I know better than to ask why you are sitting in the dark—“

An elegant shoulder shrugged. “I was thinking. It got dark. I couldn’t be bothered.”

“…to get up and turn a light on. Yes, so I guessed.” John nodded, slowly and pointedly walking to each of the room’s other lights and flicking them on one by one. It really didn’t help much. Even fully illuminated, the sitting room still seemed cloaked in shadows. “That would be why I didn’t ask. But I am curious—just mildly, mind you, and I’ll know I’ll probably live to regret it--to know what you think is predictable.”

A slow smile. “You are.”

“I see. And how am I predictable, exactly?”

Sherlock sat up, the long folds of his dressing gown falling languidly into place around him. John refused to notice just how attractive his couch-tousled hair made him look. “It’s obvious,” Sherlock told him smugly. “One brief meeting with your ex-sister-in-law—the only member of your family you can actually stand, who is now leaving England for good—and you were instantly overcome with a wave a maudlin sentimentality. That, combined with the inexplicable sudden presence of a velvet-dressed Father Christmas on every corner—and I do mean sudden, as I could have sworn there weren’t any out there to be seen last night or even this morning…”

John’s forehead furrowed. “Yes, I noticed that as well,” he said, momentarily distracted. “The shops and lampposts are suddenly all decorated, too. How did they manage it? Do they just spring up like mushrooms? Or is there some sort of secret signal that spurs a team of invisible elfish decorators into action?”

Sherlock waved a hand airily. “Oh, it’s probably just Mycroft,” he said. “Anything inexplicable that happens in London is usually Mycroft’s fault. Probably the exact instant of holiday decoration was calculated to prevent the imminent collapse of some great economic power or other. You can try asking him sometime. Although I’m fairly sure he’ll never tell you.” The detective shrugged, effortlessly dismissing his world-dominating brother, and re-focused his aquiline gaze on John. “As I was saying. Under the dual influence of morbid familial soppiness and subliminal seasonal advertising…”

John frowned. “It wasn’t *that* subliminal,” he muttered under his breath. “If I never hear “Jingle Bell Rock’ again, I’ll die a happy man.”

“…you, John Watson, decided to do some early Christmas shopping.” Sherlock got to his feet, tugging his dressing gown into place with all the unconscious authority of an admiral tugging down the jacket of his dress uniform. “I must say that I’m a *little* surprised at you, John. You of all people should know how much I abhor tradition. Particularly one as trite and essentially self-serving as the annual exchange of holiday gifts. However. As you seem determined to throw your lot in with unimaginative, consumeristic masses…” Sherlock began to cross the room, stalking toward John with all the subtlety of a hunting cat about to pounce on its prey. “You might as well give me my present now.”

If the light in 221B had been better—or if John had been feeling less on edge—he might have noticed the almost childishly gleeful glint in Sherlock’s eyes. Or even the eager way Sherlock’s hands opened and closed, as if already enthusiastically gripping the box. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t. And so all John noted was the predatory stalk…which, going as it did with Sherlock’s casual assumption of ownership over something that John hadn’t, as yet, fully decided to give, made something inside him snap. John found himself retreating into the kitchen with the box clutched protectively to his chest. “Hold on,” he said as he moved quickly backward. “Who says I’ve been out holiday shopping?”

Sherlock stopped in mid-stalk. He looked puzzled. “Well, the bright red ribbon wrapping that box you’re clutching was a fairly significant clue.”

“Oh. Right. I suppose it would be.” Sherlock nodded happily, all doubt resolved, and took another few steps toward John and the box. John retreated still further, backing all the way into the kitchen, even edging behind the table in an effort to put some barrier between himself and the rapidly closing genius. “Hold on, not so fast,” he said. “Even if I agree that this may, in fact, be a holiday gift…”

“A fact even a blind infant could deduce…”

“Yes. Even so.” John swallowed awkwardly. “There’s not a single thing on it that says that it’s for *you*.”

And now Sherlock looked truly puzzled. “Who else would you buy a Liberty scarf for?”

Ah. Okay. Apparently all of England’s women and one Mr. Sherlock Holmes could recognize a Liberty scarf box on sight. John clutched the package even tighter. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yes. Me.” John nodded emphatically. He gave Sherlock his best attempt at a bright smile. Even John knew that it wasn’t a very good one, and he was aware that there was a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Nevertheless, now that the lie had been spoken he clung to it, the way a drowning man grabs a lifeline. “It is the holidays, after all. I decided to treat myself.”

He had, at least, succeeded in getting the stalking to stop. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, staring at John with astonishment and—could it be?—more than a small amount of hurt. “You,” he repeated.

“That’s right.”

“You. Bought yourself a scarf from Liberty of London.”

“That’s what I said.” 

“One expensive enough that they used the *good* gift box to wrap it. The one with the thick cardboard and the embossed logo.”

“Um…” John blinked. He took another look at the package under his arm. It seemed like an ordinary enough cardboard box to him. “They have different qualities of gift boxes?” 

Sherlock nodded, his eyes going disturbingly dark and intent. The intensity caused John to falter for a second. He had a feeling that his ignorance of the finer snobbish points of department store gift giving rather proved Sherlock’s point more than disputed it. Nevertheless, John straightened his spine, allowing more than a hint of testiness to come into his voice. “Well. It’s the holidays,” he repeated. “Like I said, I wanted to treat myself. Is there some law somewhere that says I don’t *deserve* a quality gift box?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock snapped back, just as testily. “I just thought…” He stopped mid-sentence. Then he glared at John and held out his hand, face as petulant as a child’s. “All right, then. Let’s see it.”

“See it?”

“Yes, see it.” Sherlock nodded at the box. “The box has clearly already been opened once between the shop and home. You’re obviously not saving it for Christmas. So, there’s no harm in opening it again and trying it on.” Sherlock’s lush lower lip twisted sardonically. “I’m curious what sort of presents John H. Watson M.D. buys for… himself.” 

The challenge was clear. Inwardly, John shrank from it. But outwardly, there could be no choice. He sat the box squarely on the kitchen table. And lifted up the lid.

God. Here…in the dim flickering light of the kitchen, set amongst the table with a few of Sherlock’s abandoned beakers and tea cups strewn around…the scarf looked even more indefinably *Sherlock* than it had in the cafe. Dark, yes. But like the man himself it was not completely black; there was enough richness to its forest green color to draw the eye and enough of a subtle sheen from the silk to keep it. Clara had chosen very well. The scarf would have suited Sherlock like a second skin. 

John saw Sherlock’s eyes widen, clearly both surprised and appreciative. For a second John longed to tell him that the scarf was, indeed, his. In fact, John positively itched to lift it from the box and step in close to the detective, wrapping the luxuriant softness around Sherlock’s throat with his own hands. And then see Sherlock’s eyes crinkle with pleasure, and hear the softly murmured thanks…

But it wouldn’t be like that, would it? Sherlock never accepted gifts with grace. He snarked and belittled and rejected. Or else he snatched and ran back into his corner liked a greedy child, without thanks and without appreciation. And for some reason, that was a fate John couldn’t bear. Not for this gift, not now. Which left John with only one choice.

He picked up the scarf and wrapped it awkwardly around his own neck.

There was a moment of utter silence. If John had ventured to look up, he would have seen Sherlock’s hurt face—and would also have seen the longing in his eyes, quickly blinked away and replaced by a well-practiced mask of indifference. But once again, he did not. So all he heard was Sherlock’s voice, hateful and sarcastic in the extreme. “Green is really not your color.” 

*So I’ve been told*, John thought. Aloud, he just said, “Isn’t it?”

“No. You’ll look ridiculous.” 

*Of that I have no doubt.* “Gosh. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” And with that Sherlock was gone, striding testily out of the kitchen with his dressing gown swirling around behind him like a cape. A quick cacophony of squeaking springs told John that Sherlock had once again thrown himself down onto the sofa. 

John fingered the soft-strong cashmere-silk for a moment. Then he went up to his room.

***

It might have been okay. John could have taken the scarf up to his room, put it back into its apparently quite exclusive gift box, and tossed the whole thing into the back of his closet, where even Sherlock never trespassed. (Or where Sherlock trespassed so subtly that John never noticed, and therefore didn’t have to go through the motions of pretending to be indignant.) If he had, both men could have gone for months or years without ever mentioning the scarf again. And might possibly have forgotten about it completely. 

But only two days later, when they were in the downstairs hall dressing to go out on a case, pulling on coats and hats and yes, in Sherlock’s case, a scarf that was probably made of cashmere but not forest green at all, Mrs. Hudson stuck out her head. “Not wearing your new present, dear?” she said, and when both men momentarily looked baffled, she smiled and gestured at Sherlock’s neck. “The scarf, Sherlock, the posh one from Liberty! I know…” She fluttered her eyelashes coyly. “I know John could never have made you wait until Christmas morning to open it.”

And Sherlock said, with cold, exaggerated emphasis: “The scarf? Oh, the *scarf*! The scarf from *Liberty*. *That* scarf wasn’t for me, Mrs. Hudson. John bought *that* scarf for himself.” And then they both looked at John.

Sherlock’s expression was darkly inscrutable, but Mrs. Hudson’s was as clear as a printed page. She stared at John with such open skepticism that John was forced to say cheerfully: “Oh, right! Knew I’d forgotten something. Just a moment.” He popped back up the stairs, retrieved the thrice-damned thing from its box, and returned with it wrapped around his neck. He managed to ignore Mrs. Hudson’s startled, “*Green*, dear? *Really* not your best color,” as he marched past her, just as he managed to avoid looking directly at Sherlock and seeing the mocking amusement and triumph he was sure would be there. But seen or unseen, John knew that a challenge had been issued. From that moment on, he’d better be wearing that scarf every time he left Baker Street.

So, wear it he did. Which shortly led him to discover one terrible, incontrovertible fact. John H. Watson, M.D., was Not a Scarf Person.

Part of it was his military training. For someone who’d had the enemy’s hands around his throat—and occasionally his own patients’, when an inadequately restrained soldier suddenly came to consciousness and mistook his helping hands for those of an attacker—wearing a length of fabric wrapped snugly around the neck was not exactly a comfort. Besides, before John had gone overseas he’d had an overly enthusiastic hand-to-hand instructor, one who’d taken great glee in demonstrating what could be done to a human body using perfectly ordinary items of jewelry and clothing. John still sometimes had to look away when he saw a woman with long dangle earrings hanging from pierced ears, and the demonstrations of what to do with scarves and neckties had been almost as bad. John found that he couldn’t wear the scarf without feeling itchy all over. He half expected some idiot to jump out from behind a tree at any moment and use the damned thing to throttle him. 

To compensate, he wrapped the scarf very loosely indeed, and that was…just terrible. There *were* men in this world capable of wearing a loosely draped scarf with élan, striding through the streets confidently without a care in the world. John was sure of this; he’d grown up watching Doctor Who. Sadly, he was not so gifted. The scarf slithered. The scarf slid. The ends were always getting blown off his shoulders in the wind. This inevitably led to them getting caught in doors and car boots and even--on one notable and highly embarrassing occasion--the winter-bare branches of a nearby tree. 

The laws of mass and gravity, which John had formerly found to be so reliable, seemed to go on vacation where the scarf was concerned. No matter how carefully John draped it so that the ends hung evenly when he first left home, one end inevitably grew longer and one shorter. This didn’t just have the regrettable result of making John look lopsided. The long end developed a habit of getting into trouble whenever John leaned over so much as an inch, dipping into puddles and bathroom sinks and--on one even *more* notable and *far* more embarrassing occasion--a restaurant toilet. 

Fortunately, said toilet only contained water at the time. And Mrs. Hudson had tsked over John the moment he came home and whisked the scarf away, performing some mysterious witchery with a steaming tea kettle and a cool iron which John only vaguely understood. The scarf was returned to him the next day, as good as new. But the embarrassment lingered on, and John was never quite as comfortable wearing it again. Especially since, by then, he’d caught enough glimpses of himself in shop windows and bathroom mirrors to admit the terrible truth. Forest green really *wasn’t* his color…

Still, he soldiered on. He knew that to stop wearing the scarf at any point before the daffodils came up in the spring would be tantamount to a full surrender. And then the most embarrassing thing of all happened. The serial killer they were chasing the day before Christmas actually DID step out from behind a tree, grab John’s scarf, pull it tight and use it to strangle him. The man held the fabric with such firm, calm hands that John quickly began to lose consciousness. His last thought as his knees hit the ground and the world began to go black was that he really might be in some trouble, if Sherlock wasn’t there…

But Sherlock was there. 

It was almost worth the oxygen deprivation to watch Sherlock take the serial killer out. The detective sailed into the man with all the elegant ease of a thoroughbred jumping a gate. After he’d knocked him easily to the snowy ground, he began to pummel him, moving with such graceful ferocity that the darker corners of John’s own violent heart were filled with glee. Or at least, they were until enough good, red blood returned to his brain that the roaring left his ears and he could finally really understand what was happening. The murderer had long since ceased to struggle, but Sherlock was still hitting him anyway, smacking him over and over again with chillingly destructive precision while he repeated a single word. John’s blood ran colder than the snow melting into his pant legs when he finally understood which word it was.

It was “Mine.” 

Greg Lestrade wasn’t on duty that night, having taken the whole Christmas week off. Sadly, the retired detective who’d been called in to cover him did not have Lestrade’s happy, casual ways when it came to releasing witnesses from crime scenes. Especially not when it was so unclear who was the witness and who was the criminal. He actually put Sherlock’s bloody hands into cuffs, determined to take him into custody and keep him there until the whole mess got straightened out—which, given the holiday, might take several days. He also refused to let John give himself a medical all-clear. Instead, he insisted on having the paramedics he’d called for the bruised and bleeding murderer go over him, too. 

John tried to argue this as fiercely as Sherlock argued against his own incarceration. But when Sally, exasperated, finally pulled him over to the ambulance’s side mirror and told him to “For god’s sake, just look at yourself,” John went silent. His neck really did look awful, swollen badly and already coming up with some impressively colored bruises. There was also a deep, livid red scratch on one cheek which he honestly couldn’t remember having come by. The sensible thing to do was surrender. 

By the time the paramedics had gone through all the typical medical rituals and determined that scrapes and bruises were all the damage John had sustained, Sherlock had surrendered, too. He was sitting in the back of a police car, twisted sideways so that his legs dangled out to touch the pavement, his elbows resting on his knees and his head resting on his still-cuffed hands. Two very muscular and disgruntled constables were standing guard. 

The good officers didn’t want to let John near Sherlock, so John fixed Sally with his best pleading look. It must have been an extraordinarily good one—maybe the bruises added poignancy—because she only resisted a few moments before she tossed her head and crumbled. “Well, it is Christmas Eve, I suppose,” she muttered under her breath, and told the men to let John through. She even led the constables a few feet away to give the two men some semblance of privacy, though of course all three officers kept them well in view. 

Sherlock lifted his head the moment they were gone. “Call Lestrade,” he said. 

“You think he’ll come?”

“Of course. The man’s a workaholic, born and bred. He should be more than ready for a break from the wife and kiddies by now. I bet he’ll leap at the chance to come in and straighten this out. If not, try Mycroft. Tell him I know about the Christmas of ’86 and am willing to tell all. He should have me out within the hour.”

“The Christmas of ’86?” John repeated, hypnotized. Was Sherlock referring to some secret, crushing government scandal? Or merely catching Mycroft in some paltry adolescent rebellion, like smoking pot behind the garage? Then John caught himself and rolled his eyes. “No, never mind, forget I asked. It’s been much too hard a morning for me to deal with the weirdness of your family relations right now. Sherlock, I’ll call Lestrade in a minute. For now just sit up straight and let me look at you. I especially want to see your hands.” 

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock complied: sitting up and even holding out his arms while John examined him. He patted Sherlock over thoroughly, searching for broken bones, and finally ended with a careful examination of the detective’s pale fingers and wrists. One of the paramedics had clearly been there before him, cleaning the blood off of Sherlock’s hands and taping a dressing over one set of fingers. John went over him again anyway, even loosening the bandage to examine the wounds underneath. It was just as he’d suspected. All he found was some swelling and abraded skin over the knuckles, the sort you could reasonably expect when you’d pummeled a man half to death. John carefully replaced the dressing and sat back on his heels. “Have them give you an icepack for that swelling when you reach the station,” he said brusquely. “Otherwise, everything seems to be in order. Bruised but not broken.”

“Rather like you, then.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet. His eyes were on John’s neck. 

John shifted self-consciously and reached for his scarf. Amazingly, he still had it. First the police and then the paramedics had wanted to take it from him, but John had resisted, and eventually they’d stopped trying. Possibly they’d seen the way he’d clutched it and recognized that he wasn’t exaggerating when he said they’d have to sedate him into unconsciousness before he let it go. The scarf was still whole and uncrushed, surprisingly undamaged by having been used as a garrote. At the time, the soft feel of the cashmere had both calmed and soothed him. 

Now, though, with Sherlock’s eyes on him, the comforting feeling fled. Particularly since Sherlock was looking at him so intently, the way he didn’t look at anybody, really. Or at least not anyone human. Only the tiny flecks of fiber trapped in a murder victim’s shoes ever seemed to garner this much of Sherlock’s penetrating, undivided attention. “You know,” the great detective said softly, “Perhaps we’ve all been wrong.”

John shifted self-consciously, twitching the fabric up a little higher on his neck. “Oh, yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “Perhaps green really *is* your color, after all.” He smiled then, one of his rare, real, happy smiles that made him look all of fifteen years old. “It certainly goes wonderfully with those red eyes and that purple skin you’re currently sporting. Mind you, I still think it would look better on me.”

John wanted to smile back. He really did. But suddenly he was back on the snowy ground, watching Sherlock beat the holy shit out of a man while calmly saying, “Mine. *Mine*,” over and over again. “Yes,” John said. “About that--” …and promptly froze. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of another word. 

Sherlock waited for him to speak for several heartbeats. Then the detective seemed to wilt. He curled in on himself in the car seat, awkwardly wrapping his bound arms around his knees. “Whatever you want to say, say it,” he said tiredly. “Neither of us is going to get any peace until you do.”

Yes, John thought to himself. Yes, that’s probably true. “’Mine?’” he said simply.

Sherlock shrugged. The dark, dark pools that were all John could see of his eyes were one of the scariest things John had ever seen. “No one touches what is mine, John.” 

“Oh yes?”

“Yes.” The detective nodded emphatically. “I take care of what belongs to me, John. And unlike you…” His dark gaze traced over the scarf. “I’m smart enough to know what those things are.”

John stared, appalled. “You must be out of your mind,” he said in disbelief, his hand unconsciously tightening on the green cashmere-and-silk. “You can’t seriously mean that you beat a man bloody over *this*. Over some stupid bit of fabric. One I never even *gave* you...”

“Idiot.” Sherlock’s voice was low and savage. “I wasn’t *talking* about the scarf.” 

And it was that precise, incredibly auspicious moment that the two constables returned. One put his hand on Sherlock’s head, perfunctorily guiding him fully into the car and slamming the door. The other gave John a crisp “Best stand back, sir. Wouldn’t want to roll the tires over your feet,” before he got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. 

Shocked as he was, John still managed to move forward, fists raised to pound on the car windows—but Sally’s hand was on his shoulder. “Easy,” she said when he turned on her, ready to growl his frustration at her, instead. “I already called the Inspector. He’s on his way to the Yard. Psycho won’t be in custody for long.”

“What?” Sally’s dislike for Sherlock was legendary. John couldn’t imagine her making the effort to so much as spit on Sherlock if his hair was on fire, let alone interrupt her superior’s vacation on his behalf. “No wait—I heard you. ‘What’ is the wrong question. *Why*?”

Sally shrugged. “Bastard over there—“ she nodded at the ambulance, which was just getting ready to depart with the serial killer inside—“killed three university-age women and one six-year-old girl. I’d have rearranged his face myself, if I’d had a chance. Besides. It’s a good excuse to get Boss back to work, away from that crazy wife of his. Too much time at home just isn’t healthy.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Speaking of which…you want me to arrange a ride for you to Baker Street? Or maybe you’ve finally come to your senses, and I can call a cab to take you to the airport. There are lots of places in the world to be, after all. Ones where Psycho isn’t.” 

“Thanks,” John said dryly. “I’ll walk, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself.” She strode off toward the ambulance, instantly dismissing him.

John shook his head and walked off into the dull, snowy day.

***

The streets of London were always a dangerous place, even on Christmas Eve. But there was a euphoria to having survived a recent battle that couldn’t help but affect John physically, no matter how troubled his mind. As he made his way through the clinging fog, the morning’s snow crunching under his boots, there was a jauntiness to John’s step that clearly told the world he was predator, not prey. A teenager in a dark hoodie who had been about to step out from behind a corner and demand John’s wallet took one look at his bruises and his manic smile and changed his mind. Assorted other denizens of the back streets and alleyways observed John coming and melted silently back into the shades. John noticed them all, and felt a small frisson of pleasure at this silent acknowledgement of his superiority. But it was fleeting thing, one that barely touched his troubled mind. What did it matter that he could hold his own amongst a handful of drug dealers and thieves, when his own home held something far more dangerous?

*Idiot. I’m not talking about the scarf.*

No, of course not. Sherlock had been talking about John himself. And that had crystallized something that John had known all along, but hadn’t been able to really face until that very day. It was the reason he kept shouting to the world that he and Sherlock weren’t a couple, when everyone and everything—including John’s own common sense—told them that in most every way, they already were. It was why he’d never given in and kissed Sherlock’s mouth, on one of those long, cold nights in the Baker Street sitting room when Sherlock’s poignant, lingering gaze had clearly told John that he could. It was even why he hadn’t given Sherlock that damned, damned green scarf, a lover’s gift, when everyone including Sherlock simply assumed it was his due. For his own sanity John had put Sherlock in a box, a box marked “Not My Boyfriend” just as Clara had said, and there was a very good reason why he had. The reason was this:

You didn’t date Sherlock Holmes. 

You didn’t put ring on his finger, or even crawl into his bed for a one night stand. 

You belonged to him, instead. 

Mind, body, soul—you belonged to him in every way that it was possible to belong. If you couldn’t accept that, you needed to run. To the other end of the world, if your feet would carry you that far. And even then, you had to know that the second he wanted you, he would find you again. Because Sherlock Holmes did not have relationships with people. 

He owned them.

And that meant that John Watson only had a scant handful of hours to decide, once and for all, whether or not he wanted to be owned. 

***

It was late in the evening before John returned to Baker Street. He’d put the intervening hours to very good use. He’d found no less than three open restaurants, gone into each one and drunk innumerable cups of tea; he’d called Harry and let her drunkenly wish him a happy Christmas seventeen times before her attention finally wandered and she dropped the phone; he’d even called Scotland Yard and learned that Sherlock had been released “on his own recognizance”, although the clearly disapproving desk sergeant refused to tell him just when. He watched several procrastinators carry Christmas trees through the street and several sets of overly optimistic children try to make snowmen out of the scant snow. And all the time, he kept hearing Sally Donovan’s voice in his head, offering to get him a cab to Heathrow, making him wonder if he shouldn’t have taken her up on it. She was right. There *were* plenty of places in the world to be where Sherlock Holmes was not.

The problem was, John could no longer really conceive of himself as being happy in any of them.

In the end, it was weariness, along with a certain inescapable sense of inevitability, that led him back to Baker Street, no clear answers in his head. The lower hall was dark when John let himself in, Mrs. Hudson having already left to spend the holiday with her sister. But there was a tray left on the table by the stair, holding a plate of Christmas cookies and two mugs full of cooling hot chocolate. When John picked up the tray, the chocolate smelled ordinary enough, but the cookies teased his nose with a decidedly…. herbal… fragrance. Evidently Mrs. Hudson had opted for more than just sugar and spice to ensure her holiday baked goods were well received. John shook his head ruefully. He disposed of the cookies in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen trash before he carried the mugs upstairs. 

The lights were off, but the sitting room of 221B was both warmer and brighter than John was used to. The large Victorian fireplace, usually home to a mish-mash of Sherlock’s old research papers and books, held a genuine fire blazing in its grate, something that caused John to stop in his tracks. Had Sherlock simply set fire to the papers that were stored there? Or had he…no, it was almost unimaginable…actually cleared away his mess before he’d started the fire with more traditional materials? John took a few steps toward the fireplace, determined to investigate this mystery...and once again heard a voice, coming from the deep gloomy shadows the firelight cast over the couch. “You’re back.”

“There’s nowhere else for me to be, really,” John answered, stating the simple truth. “I see you’re back, as well. A free man once again.”

“Oh, I’ve been home for hours,” Sherlock answered. “Lestrade was waiting with my release before I even walked through the door. I was right, incidentally. The poor man was desperate for a chance to come back to work. Apparently the hot new holiday toy his kids just had to have is something no sane adult should ever be forced to spend time around.” 

Sherlock sat up, letting his face and torso come into the light. He didn’t, John noticed, seem any the worse for his near incarceration. If anything, he seemed remarkably relaxed—hair freshly washed and thus curling a bit more than usual around his face, the top collar button of his flawlessly pressed shirt left undone. But when Sherlock spoke again, his voice sounded rather hesitant. “However, Lestrade did arrive at the Yard a full seventeen minutes faster than should have been possible, assuming you called him the moment I left in the police car. What happened? I was sure you two would waste at least three and a half minutes pretending that you had to talk him into it.”

Ah, yes. If there was even the slightest smidgeon of a puzzle to be solved, Sherlock would home in on it, wouldn’t he? “Maybe we would have, if I’d been the one to call him,” John answered. “I didn’t have to, though. Sally already had.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. Clearly this was one solution he hadn’t considered, but it satisfied him. “A bit unexpected for Ms. Donovan to be so thoughtful, but that would explain it. The Christmas spirit must be softening her.”

“Or else she just didn’t want to spend the holiday with you sitting handcuffed outside her office,” John pointed out. He held up his cocoa mugs, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. “Look, Mrs. Hudson left us some chocolate. I’ll go reheat it.” 

“Never mind that. I already drank an indecent amount of eggnog with her before she left. Open your present.”

John stopped in mid step. He cocked his head, not sure that he’d heard Sherlock correctly. “Present,” he repeated.

“Yes. I purchased it this afternoon.”

“You. Bought a present. For me?”

“Well, of course I bought it for you. Why else would I have called it ‘your’ present?” Sherlock’s face was smooth, clearly trying hard for nonchalance. But he was sitting straight up on his couch, not lounging, and his left hand was gripping the back in a way that couldn’t help but communicate a certain tension. He jerked his head toward the fireplace. “I put it on the mantel, next to the skull. Go on. Open it.” 

Cocoa mugs still clutched in his hand, John turned towards the fireplace once more. And saw, propped up on the mantelpiece, what he now knew for certain was a Liberty of London scarf box. It bore the traditional bright red holiday bow. 

The oddest feeling swept through John Watson’s heart. *No,* he told himself firmly, trying to stop it. *It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t *change* anything. Anything at all.* But his heart wasn’t listening, and with every beat it was carrying John further into an entire tide of emotion quite unlike anything he’d ever known. Terror was certainly a part of it—mind numbing, palm-dampening, knee-weakening terror. But at the back of it all was a sudden happiness that pretty much outstripped any happiness he’d ever felt. And wasn’t that just a description of life with Sherlock in a nutshell, terror and happiness living together in perfect, if extremely bizarre, harmony? 

Trying not to grin too hard, John approached the box. He stood for several moments, examining it, until Sherlock made an exasperated “tsk “ sound. “It’s a present, John, not a work of art,” he said. “You’re supposed to open it. You’re not supposed to just stand there staring at it, like a mediocre art student studying a Picasso in the Louvre.” 

John gave up trying to control his grin. He let it spread over his face unhindered, although he tilted his head a little to make sure the detective couldn’t see. “I was just checking out the gift box,” he said lightly. “You know. Examining the quality of the cardboard, trying to see if the store name was embossed. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Sherlock’s voice was a growl. “Just open it.”

“All right. Let me put these down.” John placed his burden of cocoa mugs onto the crowded mantelpiece. He took off his coat and hung it over a nearby chair. Then, only then, did he approach the box, lifting it carefully in his hands and turning it every which way in the light before he finally began to slide off the bow. Sherlock, frustration on every feature, got to his feet and came toward him, clearly intending to take the box and open it for him. John forestalled him with a raised hand. “No, none of that,” he said firmly. “I’m going to do this my own way. After all, this is the first present the great Sherlock Holmes has ever bought for me. You can’t blame me for wanting to make the moment last.”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath. To John, it sounded a lot like “It’s the first present the great Sherlock Holmes has ever bought for anybody,” and it was enough to make John’s fingers freeze on the bow. Could that possibly be true? Yes. After a moment of frenzied thought, John was suddenly, terribly sure that it was. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Take as much time as you want. But don’t blame me if we’re both still standing here at New Year’s.”

His throat suddenly very dry, John still managed a tight little laugh. “Yes, well, I think I can do a *little* better than that.” He opened the box. 

The gift inside was, of course, a scarf. Not quite like the one Clara had purchased, which John still had draped around his neck. This new scarf was thicker, much more substantial, knit in a pattern of tiny raised and lowered squares—“thermal”, John remembered someone calling that kind of fabric once. Where Clara’s scarf had poured through the hands like the finest of wines, this one more sort of…flopped. But. It was still soft, sinfully so, inviting the hands to sink into it and linger. And there could be no question now that the box was of the highest quality, made of smooth thick cardboard and clearly embossed with the Liberty logo. John put the box back on the mantelpiece, fingers still touching the soft cloth inside. “Cashmere,” he said. 

“And silk,” Sherlock agreed quietly. “It’s a blend. Cashmere for softness and warmth. Silk for strength.”

There was a world of meaning in the softly spoken words. John, startled, lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s—and suddenly found that he was completely unprepared for what he saw there. He looked back quickly at his present, fingers awkwardly stroking the fabric. “And blue,” he said. “Midnight blue, very nice. I think Mrs. Hudson will approve.”

“Well, since we’ve established that forest green only suits you when you look like a strangulation victim, I thought it was time for a change,” Sherlock answered archly. “We can’t have you running around covered in bruises *all* of the time.” John gave a dutiful half-laugh, although his heart really wasn’t in it. Sherlock’s voice softened. “You’ll find, when you take it out of the box, that this scarf is quite a bit shorter than the one you’ve been wearing. Much more…practical…for a man of your height.”

This time John’s chuckle was slightly more genuine. “Less likely to dip into the toilet, you mean,” he said. “I didn’t think Mrs. Hudson could keep such a flattering story to herself.” Sherlock, for once, stayed quiet. John let his fingers stroke over his gift one more time. Then he stepped away, resolutely squaring his shoulders. “I don’t know, though,” he said, trying hard for humor. “Nice as your present is, I’ve kind of gotten used to wearing this one. Wandering tails and all.” He took one end of the green scarf and attempted to throw it dashingly over his shoulder.

It landed squarely in the fireplace.

Both men swore and swung into action—John twisting and pulling away so that the scarf dropped to the floor, Sherlock skidding to his knees in front of the fire so he could snatch the fabric away from the flames. The end result was that the scarf escaped without so much as a single singed thread. Nevertheless, the moment was quite adrenaline-filled. John stood, heart thudding within his chest, mentally cursing his own stupidity. For his part, Sherlock got back to his feet in a brilliant rage, towering over John with reddened cheeks and his eyes glittering murderously. For a moment, John thought he understood how the serial killer must have felt. “For god’s sake,” Sherlock growled. “If you MUST persist in this madness, then the least you can do is LEARN HOW TO WRAP A SCARF PROPERLY. You’re going to end up killing yourself if you don’t.” He snatched the scarf from the floor and folded it in half, grasping the shortened length with both hands as his chest heaved with rapid breaths. “I’ll. Show. You.”

John almost shied away. Sherlock really did look positively lethal, and it was unclear to John if his last words were a promise or a threat. But when Sherlock stepped toward him, all he did was gently drape the doubled length of the scarf around John’s neck. He passed the two free ends through the circle made by the fold and slowly, oh so slowly, snugged the knot up to John’s neck. Then, using infinite gentleness and care, he deftly wrapped the free ends twice more around John’s neck before finally tucking them securely into the neck of John’s sweater. “There,” Sherlock said. His voice was still a growl, but a much more subdued one. “Do you see? Your neck is wrapped in enough layers to protect you from the cold or a slashing knife. But there’s no fabric flapping around, waiting to get caught in the loo or snatched up by a strangler’s hands. Do you finally understand just how *simple* it can be?”

John…didn’t answer.

He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even nod like one of those damn wobbly-headed dolls. Because Sherlock was standing close to him. He was now closer to John than he’d ever been before—only a scant few inches away from kissing distance. One arm was wrapped around John, braced on the mantel behind his back. The other was lightly touching his chest. And it was…perfect. More perfect than anything John had ever known. 

As perfect as the implausibly perfect face before him. 

Bewildered and more than a little bit dazed, John began to wonder just why it was that people always closed their eyes before they kissed…

***

Sherlock’s touch brought him back. The wondering, the impromptu flight down memory lane, and finally the panicky tabulation of Sherlock’s every attractive feature, neatly catalogued by sense…Sherlock’s fingers on his cheek pulled him away from it all. One moment John was lost, running around in circles inside his own head. The next he’d been guided gently out of it and back into a moment that was, perhaps, no less panic-filled, but at least where he could breath. Or rather gasp, much to Sherlock’s evident entertainment. “Good,” the detective murmured, and John knew that he was truly pleased—pleased by the breath, pleased by panic, pleased perhaps most of all by the desperate arousal they now both knew they shared. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten how to breathe on your own.” His fingers moved downward, ghosting over John’s cheek and jaw until they came to rest on the scarf he’d so carefully knotted around John’s neck. “Tell me,” Sherlock said. “Are you finally ready to give me what’s mine?”

John thought.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t do relationships. Maybe it was impossible for him to even try. By modern standards, to truly be in relationship with someone implied that you at least tried to start on a level playing field, tried to think of each other as equals…and Sherlock was about as unequal a human being as John had ever met. Not necessarily superior. In many ways, he was quite the opposite. But always, always unequal. To ask him to commit to another human being in the common, modern way was as ludicrous as asking an amoeba to marry a pipe wrench. It simply couldn’t work.

But Sherlock did know how to possess. And John was dimly beginning to realize that, for that small handful of humanity Sherlock thought was actually worth possessing, he had developed an array of complementary skills. The need to fight for. The instinct to protect. And even…John’s eye flickered involuntarily toward the mantel, where his short blue gift-scarf lay…possibly, just possibly, the ability to treasure. And John knew, to the bottom of his soul, that truly being treasured by Sherlock Holmes would be an experience like nothing else on earth. The only question left to ask was this: would John be strong enough to survive it?

And as that question came into his head, John suddenly had his answer. He’d survived Afghanistan, after all. He was more than strong enough. And really, now that he came to think about it, being owned was nothing new. John H. Watson had spent his entire life throwing himself headlong into the loyal service of something he thought was greater. First his family, misguided as that loyalty had proved to be. Then medicine, and finally Her Majesty’s military. In some ways, his entire life had been leading up to this moment. John’s spine straightened subtly and his chin moved up, moving into the military posture of watchful power that his body knew so well. 

Sherlock, seeing and feeling it, let out a sudden gasp of his own. John suddenly knew, with a burst of triumph, that the detective’s arousal might now be even more desperate than his own. The dark head started to close the distance between them and move in for a kiss. But John shook his head. “I have conditions,” he said huskily. “Three of them, altogether.”

“Name them.”

“The first one is fairly simple. If Clara ever comes back to England--or we ever visit her part of the States--the two of us will have dinner with her. And *you* will be polite. That means no talking about dismembered bodies at the table. No deducing out loud that her current lover is really straight and/or cheating on her, either. Have I made myself clear?”

“Eminently,” Sherlock answered. “And it’s doable, if incredibly boring. Consider your first condition accepted. What’s your second?”

“You bought me a Christmas gift. When the time comes, I want you to buy me a birthday gift as well. One you pick out and purchase yourself.” 

A look of incredible abject terror rose in Sherlock’s eyes, and John had to restrain a wild, mad urge to laugh. This was a man who could face serial murderers without a thought, but the thought of shopping unnerved him? Well, perhaps John could even understand. He decided to show some mercy and throw Sherlock a lifeline. “If you’re really stuck for ideas, you can ask Greg or Mrs. Hudson for help. Or even Mycroft, I suppose, though god help me if you do…”

The terror turned to puzzlement. “Greg?”

“Lestrade,” John explained patiently. “But whoever helps you with the ideas, you have to go to the store and buy the gift yourself. With your own money, too. No stealing the cash card out of my coat pocket on your way out the door just because you didn’t think ahead in time to get to the bank. And you aren’t just going to do this once, either. You are going to do this every single year that we are together. Am I clear?” 

“Crystal.” The detective nodded soberly. “And agreed. Your final condition?”

“I don’t have one yet,” John answered. “But I’m very sure that someday I will. So the third condition is a promissory note. You’ll let me make it—and hold you to it—whenever I need to.”

John expected Sherlock to argue this. Or at least to negotiate some reasonable limits. But the detective just nodded, solemn as a grave—

\--and with that single gesture, the whole atmosphere in the room changed. They were no longer just having a conversation, bickering in their normal way. A covenant had been made. Both men felt it. Sherlock’s eyes dilated sharply; it made him looked dazed, almost as if someone had just hit him over the head with something heavy. John felt his chest ache, as if all the air in the room had suddenly thinned and his lungs were laboring to breath. “Well,” he said, a little dizzily. “I guess that’s all agreed, then.”

“Yes. I believe it is.” Sherlock’s hand lifted as if he wanted, once again, to touch John’s face. At the last second, though, he let it drop, his eyes, face, and voice all asking the same question. “And now?” he said quietly.

Slowly, John unwound the scarf from his neck. The detective eyed his hands hungrily, shoulders leaning ever so softly forward as if he expected John to finally drape the scarf around him, but John just twisted the silken length into a loose knot and handed the fabric to Sherlock. Quickly, Sherlock’s piercing gaze following every movement, John slipped his hands through the knot and twisted his wrists a little to tighten the fabric against his skin, feeling the softness, the warmth, the strength. Oh yes. He was more than strong enough. Back straight, head lifted, John slowly lifted his arms and offered his bound wrists to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled. And proceeded to take what was his.

The End


End file.
